


Private Channel

by SylvanWitch



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-OIF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are a lot of things Brad’s good at, but talking about this isn’t one of them.</i>  Or, the inevitable post-paddle-party fic where Brad and Nate get naked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Channel

**Author's Note:**

> Um...so I really did try for unapologetic porn without plot. I suck at it, however. So here. Have some porn with a soupcon of plot. You know you want it. Oo-rah. ;-)
> 
> Also, these are the fictional characters of HBO's _Generation Kill_ and not their real-life counterparts. No disrespect intended and sure as hell no ownership implied.
> 
> For chemm80, because everyone can use a little GK porn.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Brad says, and he is.  Sorry he drank so much.  Sorry he’s a sloppy, affectionate drunk.  Sorry he kissed Nate against the inside of the bathroom door.

 

Sorry he passed out in said bathroom after the kiss, losing his balance—it was a hell of a kiss, that much he’s clear on—and ending up stretched out on his side, knees bent around the toilet pedestal, cool tiles a comfort against his burning face.

  
Now he’s got a checkerboard pattern pressed into one cheek, his mouth tastes like ass, and Nate is looking at him with an expression somewhere between disgusted and fond.

 

“For which part?” Nate asks.  And fuck if that isn’t just like his LT, letting him choose just how long the rope will be that he hangs himself with.

 

Brad hedges on his reputation for reticence by keeping his mouth shut.  He’s still a little hazy on the details of last night.  For example, he’s not quite sure whose bathroom this is.

 

It’s not Gunny Wynn’s, that much he knows.  It’s too impersonal, too sterile.

 

Too…

 

“Jesus, did you bring me back to your hotel room?”

 

It might sound sterner if he weren’t struggling to pull himself into a sitting position and getting the toilet paper holder in the back of his neck for his troubles.

 

Nate nods.  “Affirmative.”   His expression is closed, giving nothing away.

 

Brad continues his reconnaissance of the situation.  He’s in his skivvies, which means he got at least partially naked.  Jesus, maybe the taste of ass in his mouth is…actually the taste of ass.

 

“You could apologize,” Nate starts, as if offering a helpful hint, but Brad isn’t fooled, particularly not when it’s followed by, “To the night clerk at the desk.  Your explanation of the sitrep was pretty…graphic.  Also, you invited him to join us.”

 

Brad feels sweat break out across the back of his neck, and he’s pretty sure the sick feeling swimming up from his belly isn’t all down to the tequila shooters he drank last night.

 

He takes in Nate’s face, the calm delivery, the serious expression, one Brad had seen a hundred times in Iraq, the one Nate wore to fend off unwanted follow-ups and hide his true feelings about whatever orders he had to relay to his team.

 

Except in Iraq, he’d never seen that quirk at the corner of Nate’s lip.

 

“Are you fucking with me, sir?”

 

“Regrettably no, Sergeant,” Nate answers, but the quirk is growing into a full-lipped smirk now, and Brad can tell that Nate is lying.

 

Not only lying but also suggesting that he might’ve wanted the lie to be true, at least in part.

 

“So, we didn’t—.”  Brad makes a utilitarian gesture in the direction of his shorts.

 

Nate shakes his head, face mock-solemn.  “Also a negative.  I’m afraid you weren’t in any condition to follow up on your promise, Sergeant.”

 

“Promise?”  It comes out a little rough, breaking in the middle, and Brad levers himself to his feet with not inconsiderable effort.  The room swoops around him and the floor tilts under him, but he manages to stay upright by sheer fucking obstinacy.  

 

“I believe your exact words were, ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’ll feel my cock at the back of your throat.’”

 

Oh, _that_ promise.

 

Brad resists the urge to rub the back of his neck as he feels his face heat up.  He’s not twelve years old, and Nate’s not Mrs. McCorcoran, cornering Brad in the coat room to read him out for looking down Mindy Olgarich’s tank top.

 

For one thing, Mindy’s budding rack had nothing on Nate’s lips or the way he can say sixteen different things at once with his eyes.

 

For another, he realizes the heat isn’t shame or embarrassment.

 

So he meets Nate’s eyes across the six or so feet between them, squares his shoulders, stands as steady as he can, given the room’s tendency to move on its own, and says, “A Marine always keeps his promises, sir.”

 

“Oo-rah,” Nate answers, something hungry in the smile that breaks across his face.  “But be advised, Sergeant, you need a shower.”

 

“Roger that,” Brad answers, suiting action to words by stripping more or less efficiently from his shorts and tee.  Nate makes no move to leave the open doorway.  In fact, he leans there, observing and admiring, while Brad shoots him a cocky smirk.

 

“You going to hold it for me, sir,” Brad asks as he turns to relieve himself in the commode.

 

“If your aim’s that bad, Marine, I can recommend you to retest for marksmanship.”

 

Brad snorts, shakes it out, and foregoes washing his hands in favor of turning on the shower and adjusting the head until it’s on one of the less punishing settings.  His head is throbbing in time with his blood, and his blood is gaining pressure rapidly as he catches Nate’s steady regard on the periphery.  

 

How Nate can manage to look entirely dangerous wearing a pair of low-riding khaki shorts and a faded Dartmouth tee-shirt, Brad doesn’t know.  He chalks it up to the mystery of Nate Fick and climbs in.  Just before drawing the curtain closed, he says, “You joining me?”

 

“No.  I’ve got some prep to take care of,” Nate answers, like he’s talking about consulting a map or checking coordinates.

 

The image his words call up, however, does nothing for Brad’s coordination, and he narrowly misses dropping the soap in his fumbling haste to get done with the shower.

 

He dries his hair just enough to ensure that it won’t drip and leaves the bathroom with nothing but the too-small hotel towel slung low around his hips.

 

The cool air blowing from the unit by the window peaks his nipples as water beads and slides down his chest.

 

He might be damp, but his mouth is dry at the sight of Lieutenant Nate Fick stretched out on the bed, pillow beneath his hips and three slick fingers working his own ass open.

 

“Jesus,” Brad breathes, dropping the towel and crawling up onto the bed between Nate’s spread thighs.

 

“Nate is fine,” he answers, giving Brad a smile that says he knows exactly how trite the line is and is wholly unapologetic.

 

“Sir,” Brad affirms, and Nate snorts and removes his fingers, wiping them on the damp towel Brad had discarded at the edge of the bed.  He’d like to say it was clean-up he’d been thinking of, but that’d be a lie.  All he’s thinking of is how Nate’s going to feel squeezed around his cock.

 

From his back, knees wide, Nate hands him a condom.

 

Brad leans over him to take it and then shakes his head, a clear thought ringing through it.

 

“You can’t be ready,” he tries, and Nate laughs, a short, sharp sound.  “I mean,” he clarifies, “I haven’t…there’s been no…”  There are a lot of things Brad’s good at, but talking about this isn’t one of them.

 

Nate eyes lose the humor and his mouth curls down.  There’s something weighty and knowing in his face when he says, “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

 

And Brad knows he doesn’t just mean the night before at the paddle party, the drunken kiss in the bathroom, the sound of Brad in the shower as Nate prepared himself, naked and waiting.

 

What can he say?  

 

He should tell Nate that the feelings are mutual, that he spent his precious few combat jacks thinking of Nate’s mouth on his cock, Nate’s eyes turned upward with that look that says, somehow, both _I know you_ and _I can’t believe I have to put up with you_.

 

He should tell Nate that he’s wanted this for a long time, wanted more than just a quick blow behind a victor or in the dusty back storage room of an Iraqi cigarette factory.

 

He should tell Nate a lot of things, but as Brad takes in the sight of his lieutenant, waiting and naked, knees apart, hands on the backs of his thighs, cock red and hard, hole glistening, as he looks at Nate and Nate looks back, saying, _Yes_ , and _Please_ , and _I understand_ , he realizes he really hasn’t got to say a word.

 

It’s why they work.

 

Why when he puts the condom on, Nate’s breath hitches, and when he slides into Nate’s willing, tight channel Brad can feel Nate holding his breath, feel him adjusting, feel him shudder out a sighing, breathy moan, as if he’d been waiting longer than they’d known each other.

 

Brad moves, settling deeper, holding himself on one arm, the other taking the weight of Nate’s thigh so that Nate can move his hand down between them and stroke himself, Brad’s eyes fixed on the strong, competent hand, matching the motion of his hips to the movement of Nate’s hand, wanting to bring him every bit of pleasure but unsure if he can manage it, the sensation of Nate around him starting to overwhelm his control.

 

“Fuck me, Sergeant,” Nate orders, voice strained, and it’s a command and a request and a suggestion, giving Brad a choice even as he pulls out and pushes back, speeding up, raising Nate’s thigh to get a different angle, huffing a surprised breath as Nate chokes on a keening sound and hisses out, “Yessss.  Jesus fucking Christ, Colbert, fuck me.”

 

After that it’s bitten-off curses and heat lightning growing low in his back and spreading through him, arrowing down to his toes, tightening his fingers to bruising on Nate’s thigh as the pleasure starts to take him and Nate is panting and swearing, curling up toward Brad, forehead brushing Brad’s shoulder, hand working between them, and then Nate is crying out and arching back, urging Brad on with wordless noises that undo him utterly, his pleasure rolling him over and dragging him under until he can hardly breathe for it, eyes squeezed tight shut against the pounding of his blood, sure he’s going to die and not caring at all, so long as it can be here and now, Nate beneath and around him, shuddering and swearing and huffing out a wheezy laugh.

 

Nate slaps at his shoulder, says, “Off,” and Brad pulls out carefully, letting go a sound he’ll later deny as he feels Nate’s body release him.  Fuck if he didn’t want to stay.

 

Brad ties and drops the condom, not worrying about where it lands, his back sweaty against the cool sheets, his arm brushing Nate’s from shoulder to tangled fingers.  It’s not precisely holding hands, he tells himself.

 

Fuck, he wants to stay.

 

But the sun is striping the carpet with orange fire where it creeps through the crack in the lined, heavy curtains, and he knows it’s well past time he was getting back to base.

 

Which reminds him…

 

“What’d you tell Gunny about taking me home?”

 

He doesn’t bother to adjust his vocabulary.  Nate knows he means this room, their naked bodies, still damp, the spent scent of sex in the air, coating them.

 

“I didn’t,” Nate answers, curling one long finger to swipe Brad’s palm.  It makes him shiver.  “Ray suggested you were too drunk to be trusted alone and that I should stay with you to be sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit.  Mike thought it was a good idea.”

 

Brad thinks Ray is the best fucking friend he could ever have.  “Ray’s a smart man,” he says out loud.

 

“That he is.”

 

“Nate?”  It’s the first time Brad’s called him that since he woke on the floor of the bathroom.

 

“Brad,” Nate says back, no question in his voice.

 

“I have to go.”  It’s a simple statement, could mean what it means, but Brad knows Nate’s hearing it all, that he has to go back to base, back to the unit, back to Iraq.

 

“I know,” Nate answers, and that finger seeks and finds his heart line again, making Brad shiver, stirring an answering shiver in the region behind his ribs.  “But you’ll come back.”  _To me_.  _To this_.

 

He taps it out against Brad’s palm with one curled finger, an intimate Morse code meant only for him to decipher.

 

 _I love you_ , Brad doesn’t say, but he turns onto his side to rest his unclaimed palm flat over Nate’s heart, feeling it beating steadily beneath the cage of his ribs.

 

Nate’s eyes meet Brad’s and there is, as always, an essay of emotion there that only Brad can read.  Brad kisses him, their first sober kiss, and it’s a promise.

 

Then he nods, sits up, cleans up, dresses.

 

At the door, one hand curled on the handle, he looks back at Nate, who’s still naked, spend drying in the light hairs of his belly, smile on his lips, eyes warm and easy.

 

“I called you a cab,” Nate offers.

 

“Thanks,” Brad answers.  They both know he’s not really talking about transportation.

 

“Stay frosty, Sergeant,” Nate says.

 

“Sir,” Brad responds, opening the door and crossing the threshold, then pulling it closed between them before he goes.

 

As he walks away, his palm tingles, a secret message on their private channel, something he’ll carry until the next time Nate can write their future on his flesh.

 


End file.
